StarCraft - Wraith
by SuperMudz
Summary: I remember reading a really good short story a while ago, that was centred on a wraith - and while I didn't want to just copy a really excellent story, I wanted a go at one too. :P Hope you guys enjoy it.


**WRAITH**

_by SuperMudz_

He pushed the accelerator lever up to the hundred mark, as far as it could go, his hand feeling tight in his pilot glove. It shot off through the gap at 100 000 kph. Cockpit rumbling as the enemies closed in. He could see them through the glass. Mutas winging through the debris and asteroids.

He kicked it into a spin and spiralled, buster lasers blasting into asteroids, quick bursts of it, their debris spraying out into the path closing over him as he boosted through. That would slow down the flyers for a second or two, although these critters were crazy canny it was like they were psychic, they would be adjusting as quickly as he was.

"It's like you can read my mind" he grunted as he adjusted alt thrusters, gritting his jaw as he piloted it past the dangerous flecks.

He had shot missiles at them before, and they were the devil to pin down, they dodged missiles like the best wraith pilots, zipping through and under wings. In space, though, there was no atmosphere for them to work against the missiles, it could be a dead shot, if you were good enough. He could see the fleet, thin pin-points against the stars, moving out, he was forgotten or left for dead – his beacon must have been destroyed, and those bastards weren't stopping to search while the Zerg were around, he almost didn't blame them. Almost.

The inside of the cockpit was red now – hull breach alert, oxygen hissing through the depressurised hull. It shuddered- his hands felt shaky and uncertain as he was battered around, spinning through space among tiny bullet meteors at least 50,000 kph fast. They could poke holes in a Battlecruiser let alone a fragile human organ.

He caught a glimpse of something writhing against the glass for a moment, a tendril, rubbery, and then it was gone.

"I am the best."

There was a noise like nothing anyone had ever been able to describe but he knew now – a broken wraith hitting the atmosphere at speed, like all the thunders of Hell – even the special "heat-proof" wing shielding was screaming white-hot, he could actually feel the heat as the whole thing covered in sudden fire.

Then it stopped as the wraith auto-brakes slowed the atmospheric descent, its remaining jets bringing it under speed – dizzy as he was, the blood pounding into his ears all at the wrong time, he knew how to act.

Shattered glass, there was blood on his glove. He bailed out into the atmosphere.

The clouds whisked by, thick pearly fog, streaming wisps and banks of vapour. His crash suit protected him from the sudden violent ejection through atmosphere, but the sound was like thirteen hells all opened up at once.

And suddenly a jungle was looming up at him. He was landing way too fast.

His crash jets automatically fired, and he incinerated several dozen metres of foliage on the way down, on tails of fire – his battered but trained senses told him when he was slowing down. Confed technology was unreliable at the best of times, but Dominion had put a new mark down, and his gear functioned slick as wheels, even if it was still wheels through Hell.

It was several hours until he recovered himself, he could tell by the chronometer, the landing had been too rough. But his gear still worked, and nursing the shock, he started looking for higher ground, his survival training, ingrained over intense years, served him without thought.

Something had followed him down here…

He didn't want to be hunted by whatever it was in this jungle, he had to get to altitude, his scout sniper rifle would do little good against a hardened Zerg carapace. It reminded him of his jungle training, but this time the critters weren't critters, they were the Zerg.

He didn't know how far away they could be, but he knew that distance were close far too rapidly for his liking. He had already heard the tales, and he wasn't going to estimate the Zerg as anything less than perfect hunters.

(*)

Several days ago he had been on a routine patrol.

He had heard of other wraith pilots, legends – but he was young, and he would soon be taking the challenge himself. He had twelve kills to his name, and although he had taken a few knocks, he was the best pilot he knew among his crew. All wraith pilots were supposed to be good – they had to be – but he was actually good. Top gun in his own wings.

Most pilots lost at least one fighter during their career, and crashed several more, sometimes even just during practise manoeuvres, but this was his first crash. His record was remarkably high, even among the top 2% academy grads. Wraiths were expensive, but the pilots to fly them above the 2% degree required to out-shoot the enemy, even more so.

He longed for the opportunity to make his mark among the top guns, Kazansky, Rudorf, with reflex timing that'd make a computer blush, but he loved just being in a wraith. He felt that he had the talent, the instinct, to keep up. He knew himself, and as the saying went, he was wherever he went. And statistics didn't lie. There would be only one way to find out.

Proud as he was, he knew he could reach higher. Even to fly in the same wing as someone like, say, Un-yun, his favourite flyer, would be fantastic. An opportunity to show what he could do, to and with the right people, not just a statistics board.

He buster cannon rotated as he tracked over the terrain, searching out target on the HUD radar.

He took a second to take a bite out of his sandwich, and throttled the expensive flight-craft with one hand, narrowly zipping over a rocky outcropping by sheer metres, and blasting the target into smithereens before it could escape in the millisecond timing. "That's why I'm the best," he muttered through his sandwich, if anybody asked.

Indicators bleeped as he selected the stopper missiles in his payload, named so because they would detonate or even brake before hitting a target and unleashing their payload, a scattering of halo-rocket like missiles. Kill was at least an 80%.

(*)

Survival rations were useless, he wasn't going to stay on this rock longer than a few hours if he had anything to say about it, but he took them anyway because a good pilot was prepared.

It would be several hours, which he barely survived, by the nick of his wrist and blood. He would have his own big story to tell in the barracks.

His optic oversight flashed red, blinding him for a second, but then he could see, scanning the jungle with up to 1200 metres of precise telemetric pathing pointing. It looked like an easier climb about two compass clicks to his right.

He climbed the ridge, fighting them off with the commando pistol, explosive impacts dislodging them from their grip, but they were tenacious, they weren't like ordinary animals, they clamped on debris tighter than an animal on its prey.

He broke off a couple of branches and tied himself a quick splint and sling, easy stuff, first year cadet material. He climbed the incline with another stick, sturdy, peeled straight with a few lops with the razor nanolite knife.

He paused, about a half metre from the top, and sat down to carve up some of his remaining sandwich – he was hungry but he had a habit of instinct to chew small pieces under these circumstances. They were taught it wasn't necessarily the wisest course of action, but the active hunger kept him alert, and it would subside if he willed it to.

He made it up with water, which his canister could constitute right out of the air, filtered through a resin they made in the labs. "Gamma-4 optic battery, guaranteed to last longer than you do", he described to himself. Never had the time to read the description before.

He checked the inside of his wrist "DX-4250" and input the symbols into the crashed computer bank – hopefully the transmission would work, and authorise the rescue pod.

It wasn't a rescue pod, an entire dropship had landed.

(*)

He met the commander on deck, feeling weary, sweat cold inside his suit, even more chilled by the air-conditioning.

"We had to turn around about four sectors. The Zerg changed targets in mid-course, and we have to intercept."

"Why stop for me, then?"

"Because you're one of our best pilots. Captain said he could spare the crew. We have a wraith fighter waiting, if we hurry we can join formation before the fighting starts. Can you make it?"

"Sounds good. Might need an emergency stim or two, though."

Barely a pause.

"Back into the fight, sir."

Wraith pilots were made of different stuff.

THE END


End file.
